


A Date at Big Rico's Pizza

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Awkward Carlos, Cecil is a Dork, Cute, First Crush, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos and Cecil meet up at Big Rico's for a slice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Date at Big Rico's Pizza

Big Rico’s Pizza looks just like any other pizza place in a small desert town. The parking lot has a lot of cracks for the weeds to grow, a half-burned out neon sign that flickers against the orange setting sun, and the familiar sound of night scavengers rummaging through the dumpsters at the side of the building. And, like any ramshackle restaurant in an ass-backwards town, the food is terrible.

The only exception to Rico’s being your run-of-the-mill eatery is the fact that it’s a misdemeanor if you don’t visit every week. They check your name off and everything, it’s insane. Granted, this whole town is insane, but that’s what I came here to investigate - why Night Vale is Night Vale.

 _So, what are you doing here, Carlos, if you hate this place so much?_ you may be asking. Good question, dear reader. I’m here for something, or rather someone. Someone privy to lots of information and someone who likes to talk about that information… a lot.

When I enter, the bell above the frame signals my arrival. All heads whip around to stare at me. This is normal, nothing I haven’t gotten used to since I’ve moved here. But it’s eerie all the same. A pair of hooded figures are watching (at least I think they’re watching, I can never be sure) from a corner booth sharing a steaming cheesy pizza none of them have touched. Old Woman Josie is here too, and she watches me with a careful simper and a slice of pepperoni. Even Mayor Pamela Winchell is eating her dinner, seemingly always angry as she chomps down on her deep dish with vigor.

But the person I came here to see isn’t hard to spot. Cecil, with a table near the window, gesticulates wildly with both arms, nearly jumping out of his chair to grab my attention. His smile is wide, sleeves rolled to his elbows to show off his many tattoos, and his blond hair is swept back casually as if he had been running his fingers through it all night. I signal that I see him, (boy, do I see him) and I maze through the other tables to take up my spot across his.

Cecil observes me with wide blue eyes and balances his chin on his interlaced fingers. His lips are curled up into a delighted smile and I can tell he can barely contain his excitement. I know because I probably look the same way, and my stomach feels light.

“Here you are!” he exclaims, his radio voice smooth and alluring.

“Here I am,” I say. My smile is notably shier than his.

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble, asking you for a slice.”

“Not at all.” It wasn’t much of a walk, my lab is just next door after all. Cecil should know that, of course he knows that.

I keep my hands on my lap, not sure how they work anymore, because everything about me just feels so awkward. I am hyper aware of my body whenever I’m with him. His eyes have a way of doing that. They’re the color of - well, I’m not a poet or anything. I’m a scientist first and foremost. I don’t do well with metaphor and simile and the proclamation of emotional revelation with dulcet ease like he does, but I can try.

His eyes remind me of a song. Not a specific song in particular, just a song. One that I can listen to over and over again, memorizing every line and every harmony. One that I can sing in the privacy of my car, without judging eyes glaring at my tone deafness. One that I dance to when I’m waiting for the lab results to finish processing, gyrating my hips to and fro to the beat.

Cecil has a way of making me hear music. I wish I knew how to tell him that.

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” he asks, unfolding the napkin in front of him.

I suddenly remember that he’s here with me and then all at once I can’t recall the intended point of conversation. The words get caught on the back of my tongue and I stumble over them. “Oh - uh - um… Wow. It escaped me.”

“I ordered for us already,” Cecil says, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Maybe it’ll come to you when it gets here.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, and I’m grateful for the reprieve.

Cecil pours me a glass of water into my empty plastic cup and slides it in front of me. I’m suddenly very thirsty and I down the whole thing in two gulps.

Cecil watches, but he’s not alarmed. He seems to find my nervousness to be endearing rather than off-putting. I haven’t met anyone else who does. He pours me another one after I finish.

“What did you order?” I ask, curious.

“Oh, my usual. It’s the best in the house.”

I want to disagree about the standard of food served here, but I don’t want to seem rude. “Oh - and what’s the usual?”

“Everything, hold the placenta,” he says. He must see that my face falls a little bit when I hear the word ‘placenta’ (because honestly, what?) and he adds, “Don’t worry. You just have to know what you want to be happy.”

And almost as if on cue, Big Rico himself delivers the tray. He places it in between the two of us. Cecil is radiant. “Beautiful work as always, Big Rico!”

“Anything else?” the owner asks, more of a growl than a question.

“I think we’re just fine for now,” Cecil says.

“You got it, boss.” And he’s gone.

Meanwhile, I’m completely enamored with the food in front of me. If I could describe the meal I would most like to eat on the last day of my life, it would pale in comparison to what I am smelling right now.

Newly mowed grass on a summer evening, melted chocolate in a fresh cookie, the ocean breeze on the East Coast, a recently laundered lab coat, rain just before a thunderstorm, a new car straight off the lot, and one other smell I can’t quite place. It’s unique and irresistible, and it makes my knees shake. It smells like… the color _blue_.

The pizza is perfectly cut into thin triangles, the cheese burned to a perfect brown crisp on the edges of the crust, and Cecil takes his own slice and puts it on his plate. As I recognize the smell of the color, I’m all the while watching him and wondering how it was that I came to be lucky enough to sit across from someone so irreproachable.

“Go on, while it’s still hot,” he encourages when he notices that I haven’t moved.

I snap out of my trance and I don’t wait any longer. I dig in. All of those flavors I missed the first time around and more come rushing to my senses. I’m in love. With the food, of course. But arguably more than just that.

 _Why did I hate this place to begin with?_ I think, as I help myself to a second serving.

Cecil catches my eye and I pause. “Did you remember what you wanted to talk about?”

 _Oh yeah._ I shake my head and I honestly can’t remember. Was it really that important to begin with?

His blue and my brown remain, locked. His gaze trails down my face and pause at my lips. He lifts his hand from the table, reaches over to me and uses his thumb to wipe away a small smear of sauce.

He licks his thumb clean of it and smiles at me again. I forget to breathe.

I guess I know what I want.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for Emily.


End file.
